“What would Edmund say?” Elizabeth teased her.
“I think he would tell you that for an old woman I still have good eyes in my head.” Maybel laughed. “And do not think he doesn’t appreciate a pretty lass, for he does, Mistress Elizabeth.”
“You will see to his sleeping arrangements,” Elizabeth said.
“Aye, I shall make up the bed space nearest the fire for him,” Maybel responded.
“Then I think I shall seek my own bed,” Elizabeth decided. “Cold winter nights are for sleeping. Tell our guest I bid him a good night, Maybel.” She arose from her place by the fire and, crossing the hall, went upstairs.
In the morning when she returned to the hall Elizabeth was just slightly disappointed to discover the Scotsman had already departed for Claven’s Carn. After eating she fetched her cloak and hurried out-of-doors to speak with her shepherds. She knew that a storm was coming, and she wanted her flocks safely gathered in, for even now the ewes were dropping their lambs. Caught in the snow they could lose many of the young ones if their mams were not properly sheltered. Riding her horse from flock to flock, she supervised the gathering of the sheep, helping to drive some of the groups of animals towards the barns. Wolves were also a danger at this time of year. They seemed to sense the birthing process, and came skulking about seeking to catch a hapless lamb, and perhaps even its defensive mother.
By midevening they had completed the task, aided by the light of a weak but full moon. The sheep in the farthest pastures were enclosed in barns built in scattered meadows for just such a purpose, as well as for storing hay. Their shepherds and their dogs would remain with them in sheds connected to the barns. Each little accessory structure had been built with a small stone fireplace. They contained supplies of wood, food, and water. Elizabeth Meredith was a woman who thought ahead and considered all possibilities.
As she entered her house, tired but invigorated by her long day out-of-doors, the clouds were beginning to obscure the watery moon, scudding across the face of it as the winds began to rise, keening eerily in advance of the storm. Thomas Bolton and William Smythe had eaten earlier, and were both gone from the hall. Elizabeth sat alone at her board while her servants brought her a supper of mutton stew thick with chunks of meat, carrot, and onion; a small fresh cottage loaf; butter; and cheese. They filled her goblet with her own October ale, and she ate hungrily, mopping the gravy from her plate with the last of the bread, reaching for an apple as she swallowed down the rest of her ale.
Then, leaning back in her chair, Elizabeth contemplated her hall with pleasure. The dogs lay sleeping before the hot fire. The oak furniture glowed with a combination of age and good care. Outside the snow was falling, and the world was sweetly silent. She had worked hard this day, and she was content. She didn’t want to go to court or wear the beautiful but constricting gowns that had been made for her. She didn’t want to have to remember her manners, or be careful of each word she uttered. She wanted to remain here at Friarsgate. She wanted to enjoy the spring and the annual counting of her flocks, but instead she would be on the road to London. To a court she didn’t want to join, and a sister who would find fault with her because she wasn’t a real lady. Elizabeth Meredith sighed deeply, then jumped as there came a thunderous knocking on the manor door.
Chapter 2
Elizabeth heard a servant going to answer the knocking, and moments later the Scot stumbled into her hall, shaking the snow from his cloak as he pulled it off. “Come to the fire, sir,” she beckoned him. “What brings you back to Friarsgate, and in such dangerous weather?” Tonight she did not have to ask. A servant was at the Scotman’s side with a large goblet of wine. “Drink,” Elizabeth said, “then sit and tell me. Albert, fetch a plate of stew for Master MacColl. He will be hungry.”
Baen MacColl had accepted the goblet gratefully. His hand was shaking with the cold, and he wondered if he would ever be warm again. He drank half the goblet in a single gulp, and began to feel a faint warmth spreading up from his belly. Perhaps he would live after all. “Thank you, lady,” he said.
“Sit down, sir. You can eat by the fire, for I suspect it will take both food and the heat of the flames before you are truly warm again.”
He nodded. “Aye,” he said, briefly attempting to be polite, but just wanting to bask in the warmth of the hearth until he could feel his extremities again.
Elizabeth understood, and so she quietly directed her servants to bring a small table for their guest. She took the large bowl of stew from Albert and set it before the Scot, putting a spoon into his hand as the serving man placed a loaf of bread and a large wedge of cheese before the guest. “Eat first, and we will talk afterwards,” Elizabeth said.
Baen MacColl nodded gratefully and, crossing himself, quickly began to spoon the hot stew into his mouth as rapidly as he could. It was obvious he had not eaten in many hours. Did her mother not offer the messenger hospitality? Elizabeth wondered. How unlike Rosamund. Or perhaps the Scot had not reached Claven’s Carn at all. It was a very long ride. She watched, almost amused, as he tore off pieces of the bread, mopping up the gravy even as she had earlier. He took a knife from his belt and sliced himself several wedges of cheese, which he ate both separately and in combination with the bread. Finally, when every morsel had been eaten, Baen MacColl sat back with a gusty sigh.
“You have a good cook, lady. I thank you for the supper,” he said.
“Have you had enough?” she asked him. “It seems to me that it would take a great amount of food to fill up such a large man. I would not offer you poor hospitality.”
He looked at her and smiled a slow smile. “You have no need to apologize for your board, lady. I am well fed.” And then the smile turned into a little grin as he said, “For now.”
Elizabeth laughed. “Very well then, Master MacColl. Now tell me why you have returned to Friarsgate. Did you not reach Claven’s Carn?”
“Nay, but I did meet your mother, lady. She was out hunting with her lord. She opened the packet, and then said that while it was addressed to her, the message was not for her, as she was no longer the lady of Friarsgate. You are. So I turned about and came back, but the snow caught me. There was no place where I might shelter with my horse, and so I just kept riding until we reached your house.”
“You were fortunate!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “The snow and the dark surely compromised your trail.”
“I have a knack for tracking, lady. If I’ve been to a place once I can always find my way back no matter the circumstances,” he told her.
“I’ll make up your bed space, sir,” Elizabeth said. “I hope you are not needed elsewhere, for you are going to be with us at least a week, if my weather sense is correct, and it usually is. This storm will last several days.”
“What of your sheep?” he asked her.
“Safe in their barns,” Elizabeth said. “I’ll not lose my new lambs to the wolves or the weather.” She stood up. “Continue to warm yourself. I’ve suffered that chill now gripping you. It goes right to the bone. When I have arranged your sleeping space I will bring you something that will remove the cold.” Then she hurried off.
A fair and most competent lass,Baen MacColl thought as he watched her. He wondered where her husband was. He was a lucky man to have such a wife. She was a good manager, and a country man needed that kind of a helpmeet. He moved his chair closer to the fire and leaned forward, stretching his hands out to warm them. He was beginning to feel his toes again, and the stiffness was leaving his fingers. Well, if he must be stuck somewhere for a week this was not a bad place to be. The company was pleasant, the food good, and the bed space cozy.
“Here. Drink this,” Elizabeth Meredith said, handing him a small pewter dram cup.
The Scot took it from her hand, eyes widening as the aroma of whiskey touched his nostrils. He swallowed it down, and immediately was suffused with swift warmth that rose up from the pit of his stomach. He looked at her questioningly.
“My stepfather is the Hepburn of Claven’s Carn. He thinks no house civilized without a barrel of whiskey,” Elizabeth explained. “I prefer my ale, or even wine, but whiskey does have its uses, doesn’t it?” Then she laughed. “More?”
